


Великое славословіе (the great doxology)

by lammermoorian (orphan_account)



Series: no night could be darker than this night [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blasphemy, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-08
Updated: 2014-01-08
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:06:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/lammermoorian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>#12</p>
            </blockquote>





	Великое славословіе (the great doxology)

It’s dark. Outside, the storm continues to rage, no doubt sending the other patrons of the motel into a fury, spurning shouting calls to the manager, or angry retreats to beat-up cars, driving away and vowing never to return. Lightning briefly illuminates the shabby room, rain pelting against the window, threatening to flood and destroy - the assorted hosts of Heaven and Hell could be waging war outside in the streets of Colorado, yet Castiel cannot tear away his gaze.

“Sam,” he whispers. His hand is still on Castiel’s cheek, trembling. The taste of him still lingers on Castiel’s tongue; coffee and ozone and something unidentifiable, something he wants to know, a secret he must uncover. But alas, this boy is not for him. This cannot continue. “Sam,” he says again, louder. “We can’t do this - “

“Shh,” he hushes, pressing their lips together again to swallow the sound. There is a crash of lightning. “I can do whatever I want.” A hand slides around Castiel’s neck; his own hands move unbidden to clutch and fist at Sam’s hair. He tries to pull away despite Sam’s sigh of loss.

“I can’t,” he urges in between rush, hurried kisses. “You are not meant for m-mph!” But Sam is insistent, tongue dragging along the seam of his lips, opening Castiel up and lapping inside. His mouth is hot, wet, and holy; these lips have just brought about the death of his contender, and though it shouldn’t, something deep within Castiel warms at the thought, a pooling, coiling heat that rises in him, running through his veins and clouding his judgement, filling him with a sick sense of something resembling pride. 

He created this, turned Sam from that smiling, sweet boy he met all those years ago into a murderer -

No, comes his swift, furious denial. This is not my doing. This was nothing to do with Castiel - this was destiny. If not Castiel, then someone else would have come along and done the exact same thing. Sam is a vacuum of space, a black hole that eats good intentions, and leaves only darkness.

The motel bed is hard and lumpy, but Castiel would like nothing more than to throw Sam down and climb on top of him, only - “Sam,” he pulls away again, and he feels as if he has air to breathe again. Sam still has one hand buried in his hair, lips shiny with spit. “We can’t. You were made for the morningstar, and I can’t - “ he swallows, following the pink tip of his tongue as it pokes out, runs along his bottom lip, “I can’t take what belongs to my god.”

Sam frowns, near a pout, and Castiel realizes that he may have said the wrong thing. You don’t fucking own me, he recalls, you don’t, my dad doesn’t, Azazel doesn’t; I am my own person. I come to Lucifer freely.

There is a hand on his chest, and a shove, and he lands heavily on the mattress, Sam climbing on top of him, straddling his waist. “Lucifer might be your god,” buttons go flying in his haste to remove his shirt, “but I’m your king.” Castiel’s mouth goes dry at the sight of Sam’s bare chest - the long, golden length of him made pale in watery moonlight, tattoo stark black above his heart, eyes as bright as fire. "You're the one who insists on calling me 'lord', or 'your grace.' Now you're suddenly changing your tune?"

He grinds down on an erection that Castiel didn't realize he had. His hands are suddenly in the hollow of Sam's hips, gripping hard, and Sam's shudder travels back through him. "'Prince of stone and shadow,'" he echoes Castiel's prayers and hymns in a high, breathy voice that betrays how much he feels, "'son of fire, and bone, and blood. The earth is your birthright, your legacy starstuff. Holy vessel, son of dawn, the morning light will shine from your soul, your hands the tools of Hell, your body' - fuck, Castiel - " it's too much, Sam's hips and the hitch in his voice and the pressure on his cock and the toss of Sam's hair as he throws his head back and sighs in ecstasy, it's too much for Castiel, who is so in love with this perfect boy, this handsome, powerful, sweet and sharp and sleek young man that he cannot stop himself from rolling Sam over, thrusting his hips in a parody of intercourse, as he finishes his own devotion.

"Your body the gate," he murmurs in Sam's ear, "from which the shadows will come and consume, and - "  _and the temple of our lord shall stand strong until the end of days_ \- "and - "  _say the words_ _, Castiel,_ "and this I swear to you, Sam Winchester - "  _what?_  "that I love you, that I pledge my life and my loyalty to you, that I will not breathe unless it is by your wish." He licks a swath up the vein of Sam's neck, and bites, ears drinking in the music of Sam's broken moan. "I am your sword, your shield, your hand - I am - " a grunt, "your servant, your dog, unworthy and - and - " Sam comes first, a wet warmth against the front of his pants, and Castiel follows after.

The storm outside is long over, the first strains of dawn over the horizon. Castiel feels nothing, no fear or shame, nothing but content, and the warm body beneath him and the breath on his neck, and he closes his eyes. He doesn't sleep, but he will rest until morning.


End file.
